


that alters when alteration finds

by Petr1chor



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Crying, Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multi, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:15:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28935369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petr1chor/pseuds/Petr1chor
Summary: After Jehan's death, Combeferre gived Courfeyrac a letter Jehan addressed to him, confessing his love.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Combeferre/Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire, Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	that alters when alteration finds

**Author's Note:**

> Another prompt fill I did on tumblr  
> I hope you enjoy :)

Courfeyrac sat on the base of the barricade. He didn’t remember sitting down. If he was honest, he did not remember much of the battle at all, as though his mind was shielding him from the gore of it.

 _No_ , he thought, _that could not be true._

If it were, perhaps a sweet, familiar voice saying, _Long live France! Long live the future!_ would not be echoing in his head. The grime of battle clung to him like a second skin. The night would be long, he thought, taking a long gulp from the tumbler in his hand.

“Courefyrac,” Combeferre’s voice was steady as it always was, and Courfeyrac found himself leaning in its direction.

Combeferre sat down next to him, one broad palm pressing against the small of his back. He felt the breath go out of him, his shoulders slumping.

Combeferre handed him a book, old and leather-bound. “I believe this is for you,” he said.

Coufeyrac eyed the book in confusion, opening it where a pressed flower marked the pages. The elegant hand was one he had seen many times before, and it made something stutter in his chest.

He did not take his eyes off the page, “Have you read it?”

He sensed Combeferre shaking his head, “It is not meant for me. “

Courfeyrac laughed, and he was afraid it sounded too much like a sob. Combeferre, to his credit, made no comment. Instead he wrapped his arm around him, ever steady, ever constant.

“I cannot,” he choked out, “I cannot do this.”

“You are not doing this alone, my friend,” Combeferre said, his voice soft in the quiet corner of the barricade, as though their clothes were not stained with dirt and blood. As though this peace was anything but a farce. “These words are for your eyes, but I have no instruction to let you bear this burden alone.”

Courfeyrac bowed his head. He ran his hands over the page, over the curving letters. He began to read.

_My dearest heart,_

_Perhaps the manner of address is too familiar. Where I am, however, there is no one to tell me what I can and cannot do, and I will revel in that freedom. If you are reading this, I am dead. I could perhaps find more beautiful words to say it. Insert a metaphor or two. I have gone to rest, Charon has come for me, I have fallen asleep. I have found, however, that there is an odd beauty in simplicity._

_That is, after all, what drew me to you. That is not to say that you do not contain multitudes, that your kindness and humor do not make quite the pair. However, in the years we have been acquainted, dear heart, I have learnt that there is one word that describes you best. You are the Center. While the love for France and the longing for freedom binds us in battle, it is you who ensures that we are bound as friends._

_I suppose you may have come to this conclusion already. I know that it is selfish of me to leave you with this weight, but I hope you will allow me one last comfort of knowing that you know. That I will not succumb to oblivion with this buried in my chest._

_I am, without a doubt, in love with you._

Courfeyrac paused, a ragged sob being pulled out of him. Combeferre pulled him tighter into his side. He squeezed his eyes shut and looked upward in a vain attempt to quell the onslaught of tears. He read on.

_I do not know if you return the sentiment, though the softer parts of me likes to dream you do. Well, you did. It is rather unfair to you, I suppose, if you did, to find out after there is no chance of happiness. As I see it, there never really was a chance of happiness, was there? Those who fight for liberty live on borrowed time. As our beloved Chief would say, we do not have the time for such frivolities._

_History will make us into martyrs, and when they tell our story, if they put my name beside yours, that will be enough for me._

_I am leaving this letter in Combeferre’s hands because it is only he who could know the gravity of its contents. He loves you as well you, you know, although I believe he better at hiding it than I am. How could he not? We have sought comfort in each other often. On the days you would laugh like you wore your heart on your sleeve, making you glow in the candlelight of the Musain, we would sit long after night had fallen, deep into bottles of wine, talking about what it was like to love the Sun._

_Allow him to offer you comfort. He knows what you were to me, and in all honestly, we did grow very close over time. I cannot say this is easy for him either. Well, I don’t suppose battle is easy for anyone._

_Still, the wheel turns. Empires fall. Night turns to day. Grief is always easier shared._

_I do hope, in another life, another time, where the weight of freedom does not rest on our shoulders, we can find some peace. We can find some quiet café, perhaps a good bottle of wine. Allow me the honor of your company for a while._

_If there is life after this one, I hope you will find me there. I will wait._

_Yours, with love,_

_Jehan Prouvaire_

Courfeyrac clutched at the book like a drowning man. He traced his finger over the letters. The peaks and valleys. The places where he knew, with a cold certainty, the ink had been smudged by tears.

“Is this true? All of it?” His voice was thick with tears.

“I have not read the letter,” Courfeyrac glared at him and Combeferre sighed, looking down, “Yes, yes it is. “

Courfeyrac made a helpless noise and pressed his forehead to the book. He looked up at Combeferre. The everyday calm he wore was gone, he looked stricken.

Without a word, Coufeyrac placed the notebook beside him before wrapping Combeferre in his arms. He sobbed, once, loudly, and then turned to muffle the sound in Courfeyrac’s neck.

Courfeyrac pressed his lips to his temple, cradling the back of his head, clinging on with desperation.

It felt like hours before the tears dried, but Courfeyrac had managed to lay then both on the cobblestone street, with their coats as pillows beneath them. The night was warm, the moon was bright.

Courfeyrac found the courage to bridge the gap between their hands, tangling their fingers.

Combeferre turned to him, his eyebrows raised in question.

“We make sacrifices,” Coufeyrac said in almost a whisper.

Combeferre smiled a wan smile, “To be free.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and Comments are appreciated <33


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